Yesterday, I Cried_ Celebrating the Lessons of Living and Loving - Iyanla Vanzant [93]
It was getting dark outside; the trees had become shadows against the evening sky. I sat in my prayer room, remembering and crying. Whenever I think about Nett, I cry. She was Rhonda’s best friend, the light of her world. Nett was the only person to ever love Rhonda unconditionally. I had to admit that Nett could sometimes be mean and abrasive, but only when she was frustrated. I understood why she was frustrated with her life, herself, and at times, with Rhonda.
Nett was a phenomenal “sight” artist. She could draw anything she could see. She had had dreams of being an artist and had won a scholarship to the city’s art school. Her parents were poor immigrant workers who could not afford the ten cents a day she needed for carfare, but Nett was willing to walk the mile to school, regardless of the weather. Nett was responsible for her younger brother, George. Each morning she would get up and fix George’s breakfast and get him ready for school. And each morning, George would freak out when Nett tried to leave for school. He would follow her out of the house and into the street. It would take her three or four attempts to get him calmed down. By the time she did, she was late for school. After three weeks of this routine, she was informed that if she could not get to classes on time, she would lose her scholarship. Eventually, Nett had to drop out of school and go to work.
Much of Nett’s adult life revolved around Rhonda’s father. She had spent years and years trying to build their relationship and maintain their marriage. When that didn’t work out, Nett seemed to lose all hope for herself and for her life.
Thinking about Nett and her failed dreams made me sad. Nett knew what it was like to watch your dreams go up in smoke. She also knew what it felt like to have a special talent and be unable to use it. If it had not been for Nett, Rhonda never would have known that she was smart or that she could move beyond the experiences she had lived through. Sometimes Nett would become frustrated with Rhonda and tell her, “You’re not trying; you’ve got to keep on trying until you can’t try anymore.” Boy, did I miss her. I was sure Rhonda missed her, too. I’m sorry that Nett never got to see me make it. I know she would have been excited.
Daddy never got excited about anything. I remembered the day Rhonda told her father that she was going to be initiated into the priesthood of the Yoruba culture.
“That’s nice. What is it?” he asked. Rhonda explained that it was like becoming a minister. In this case, instead of going to seminary, you had to undergo a seven-day initiation process, followed by a year of study and apprenticeship.
“Why in the world would you want to do something like that?” Daddy asked without looking up from the potato he was peeling.
“It feels good to me. For the first time in my life, I think I understand God in a way that makes me feel good. Yoruba helped me do that. All of my life, I wanted to know God in a way that didn’t scare me out of my wits.”
“That’s good,” Daddy said. “That’s very good. But how come you can do this Yoruba stuff, but you can’t come to the temple with me?”
Around the time that Rhonda had separated from John, Daddy had become a disciple of Paramahansa Yogananda. He had changed his name and diet, and went to temple three times a week. Daddy had taken his grandchildren with him on several occasions, but Rhonda always refused to go. Maybe it was the strange noises Daddy made when he did his breathing and meditation exercises. Maybe it